Falling and Failing
by fantasticly-anonymous
Summary: Jim and Spock are in a bit of a pickle. If by 'a bit', you mean; definitely going to die. Rated T for blood, gore and language. Enjoy!
1. Fried

"Captain! **Jim!**"

Reality snapped back like a primed rubber band to the frontal lobe.

He was sitting in the middle of a disaster area. Everything was wrong. Very wrong. The entire transport was skewed. Some of the floor mounted computer stations were sticking through what used to be view screens and non of the overhead lighting was "overhead" anymore.  
Worst of all was the smell. Burnt electronics was never a *good* smell, but usually someone would cut the power before this much damage was done. By the terrible sound coming - presumably - from the external engines you'd think a couple flocks of pigeons had nested in there and not gotten the eviction notice from the flight prep team.  
Or else, there were rocks being fed through the things. Toss up really.

"**Captain James T. Kirk**," At the use of his title his head snapped to attention, completely on automatic, and from across the room he caught sight of a very exotic looking-

"Spock?"

"Yes, Captain. We are in a situation. I need you to bring-"

"Why's your face black?" There were more questions floating around in his head, begging for an answer, but that one was screaming loudest.

"I have not the time to explain, Captain; this man is dying. Ensign Rogue, engineering department, here on your request for his extensive knowledge of xeno-atmospheric conditions and anomalies and for his first hand experience collecting general data on ionic storms whilst stationed on the Gamma Beta 12 Observatory; along with Ensign Jordan who, 2.7 minutes ago, was lost through that window."

Jim glance to the aft wall and a second of scrutinizing cleared away any doubts. Someone had most certainly gone through that window and they'd left a little behind. A scrap of red uniform and a trickle of red blood caught to the glass teeth ringing the opening. A port hole, which looked as if it really wasn't designed for a grown, human body to fit through. Maybe if he hadn't let his eyes linger he'd have been spared the sight of a long, black, slightly curled lock of hair dangling from a silver dollar sized piece of scalp caught between two especially wicked teeth.  
He nearly gagged.

"Captain, Ensign Jordan is gone. I believe we can save Ensign Rogue but we need the medical kit which is located underneath the floor panel just to your left to do so." From then, Spock spoke a tad slower which helped the discombobulated Jim keep up with his first officer's formal wording. "Captain, _your_ left. Yes, underneath that. No, there is not a key. The release catch is 7 inches right of your thumb. Yes, then twist. _Now_ you may pull the panel free." His instructions rang true across the twenty - give or take - feet between them, bouncing around in the ship designed to transport at least twenty-five and holding only three at the time.

Jim fingers were about as dexterous as a bunch of sausages wadded up in a set of mittens, trying to pass themselves off as his normal set of hands. He wasn't a fan of the sausage hands. Aside from that, he was also certain that he'd retrieved a medical kit from a very similar compartment on a very similar transport ship on at least three separate occasions. That he needed someone to walk him through the process _then -_ of all times - was an ultimately sad joke of a reality.

He forced his fingers to cooperate long enough to pry the kit free of the compartment, then he wondered what came next.

"Captain," the Vulcan called, "please bring that here now. Ensign Rogue will not last long without the proper attention."

Jim went to stand and promptly lost his balance, landing on his rear and causing the entire transport to tremble. Not at all what he'd meant to do. Especially considering he was now a foot and a half _farther_ from the pair who needed the kit.

With the second attempt he made it to his feet and managed to pick his way through the field of debris between him and them. Impressing himself, just a little. Halfway there, a thought came to him, which he spoke for the record.

"Mr. Spock, I think this whole thing would've taken a lot less time if you'd just come over and gotten this yourself."

"Agreed Captain, but unfortunately, that was not an option." Before Jim had the time to ask 'why', he was close enough to see the reason for himself.  
Spock was down in a sprawling kneel by the blue clad ensign's side, with both his hands spanning nearly the entire circumference around a very bloody one of Rogue's thighs. The pant leg was ripped so that the injury was completely exposed.

"I set the ensign's femur but it was, by then, obvious that his rate of blood loss would prove fatal in very short order if left unchecked. Because there was nothing close which would serve as a satisfactory tourniquet I had no other option than to apply a tourniquet's amount of pressure myself. Therefore, I could not leave this man's side."  
Jim nodded, lowered himself opposite his first officer and got a good look at the damage. It was appalling.

"What happened?" Jim asked, a little disappointed that he wasn't able to keep the rough edge out of his voice. The image of torn flesh and oozing blood a supremely unappreciated one, so he coughed and pointedly looked only in his first officer's face, waiting on his response.

"Captain, if you would ready the medical kit?"

"Right, right! Damn it Spock, I don't know what's wrong with me." He lamented as he fumbled for the child safe closure.

"The most likely affliction would be a median severity concussion. You were unconscious for 2.9 minutes and judging by the blood trail now approaching your collar; the bulkheads were designed without any consideration to the fragility of the human skull in mind." The presumable _fact_ that Spock was making a valiant attempt at humor was completely lost on the Captain as he finally worked the lid open.

"Gotcha," Jim mumbled as the closure gave and he wondered, not for the first time, **why** someone had decided these things needed child safe closures? Especially when stored in hidden storage compartments aboard federation class transport vehicles? You'd think that any child unlucky enough to find themselves aboard such a vessel would only try and access the contents of a med kit if there was some sort of life and death situation going down. Can you say design flaw?  
"Captain?" Jim looked up from the pristine contents of the kit into that black stained, Vulcan face. How had that happened again?  
"Captain, I must call upon you to apply the medical aid skills and knowledge you acquired under the guidance of Dr. McCoy in the course he mandated all command officers and routine landing party members train through. One which has already aided me in the treatment of Ensign Rogue."

"What do you need me to do?"

Spock's expression sobered to the nth degree as he said, "This is a delicate process Captain, as I am sure you are aware. Considering your concussion it would only be logical that I perform the procedure but, as I am the only one present with grip strength equaling what is required to cut off the necessary percentage of blood flow, the job must fall to you." His eyes seemed to soften for a moment but it just as well could have been a trick of the flickering lights. "You have my every confidence, Captain."

_Now_ Jim was nervous. The situation was _that_serious? Mentally shrugging off the weightiness set on him by the well meaning Vulcan he pulled a long, thin, shiny probe from the bowels of the med kit and switched it on. "

"Thanks Mr. Spock, your words move me. What was it that you needed me to do, again? Exactly?"

The first officer blinked. "My apologies, Captain. I call for haste and yet I slow the process myself." Spock looked like he wanted to palm himself in the face as he spoke. "You are holding the arterial repair probe; the correct instrument to begin with but it is set to the incorrect function. The red indicator light must be blue before you can proceed."

Jim would have blushed if a headache hadn't just swept in and removed his ability to care about what anybody thought. "Whoops. O.K., got it now. So you need me to repair an artery? I can't see Jack with these malfunctioning lights," he said, with a quick gesture around the transport.

"Yes Captain, the superficial femoral artery was severed as Ensign Rogue was pinned by one of the navigational units which broke loose directly after our engines failed. At the same time, his femur and his pelvis were both fractured, with the former taking the brunt of the weight of the unit for over half of a second before we were flipped once more.  
"As for the poor lighting conditions…I regret that the only course which can be taken, with no other equipment available, is a tactile exploration prior to reconstruction of said artery."

At Jim's dawning look of disbelief Spock added, "It is the only way to be sure, Captain."

Jim had never taken himself for the squeamish type but then again; he'd never been asked to reach inside another person's body and noodle around for a damaged artery either. Without any kind of sterile field either! He supposed, with an unconcealed shudder, that everyone has their limits.

"You will know when you have found it. The texture is unmistakable."

"Yeah, like you've done this before," Jim replied, fingers wriggling through the opening in the ragged skin while he concentrated on not losing his lunch. Or breakfast or whatever.

"Yes, only minutes ago." Jim paused his search long enough to send Spock a sharp, questioning look. To that, Spock continued. "That is how I learned the extent of the damage. Also how I was able to set the femur with no margin of error. It, once again, is perfectly aligned."  
And he said it with no perceptible compunction- not one tell to give away an underlying sense of discomfort while, across from him, his Captain - his superior officer - was trembling and sweating as if he'd just given birth to twins.

Jim wondered whether there was anything left that could trip up his first officer. After the whole Nero fiasco and the righteous wrath of Kahn, it seemed as though things bothered the Vulcan less than ever before. At the same time though, it was obvious - to the main bridge staff anyway - that Spock had somehow found a way to accept happiness as a logical response to things not falling to shit.  
He hadn't started smiling - that would be sacrilegious - but there was something he did with his eyes on days that went right. This was not one of those days.

"Ah, found you! Ya little scamp," Jim said, as his fingertips felt something that wasn't blood or flesh.

"From here, you will know what to do. Dr. McCoy is an excellent instructor."

"No," Jim smirked. It was Spock's turn to give a sharp, questioning look. "Dr. McCoy is an ass and doubly so when you're on his turf. Nurse Chapel on the other hand, is a_ fiiine _instructor."

"Captain, Nurse Chapel was not an instructor." Spock said, his head quirked to one side. "She was Dr. McCoy's assistant. By the conclusion of the course I do believe that we had accumulated as much hands on experience as she had. Considering that earth's medical schools teach primarily with holographic representations, it may well have been her first time working around a cadaver. Which would explain her stark pallor and-"

"Shh, Mr. Spock. I'm in the middle of surgery here," Jim griped with mock annoyance.

"Apologies Captain, I shall keep any further acknowledgment short."

Jim found it easier and easier to ignore the smell of blood and the grizzly nature of the wound as he worked. All his concentration going into repairing damage. A smile nearly broke through his concentration at the realization that he was performing surgery on a living being. Without a Federation issued medical license _and_, to his knowledge, without the patient's consent.  
Someone was going to get in trouble for that, but it sure as hell wasn't going to be the Captain. Neither would the blame fall to Spock; Jim would see to _that_.

No, by Jim's estimation, Dr. McCoy was the only one to blame. He was the board certified physician who'd forced every command crewman and every routine away team member into med bay and armed them with such atrocious knowledge.  
Without McCoy's obviously reckless and off protocol crash course, Jim would not be closing up someone's thigh artery. He'd be watching the man bleed to death as his first officer tried his damnedest to walk his captain through the impossibly complicated process which Jim had no doubt that the Vulcan would have known how to perform, even without the doctor's med school 101.

Maybe Jim preferred things the way they were going after all.

"Mr. Spock, the artery is back to full health. I believe it's time to close," said the Captain. In response, Spock whispered something which Jim didn't quite catch; the dying sound of the engines tearing themselves to pieces still killing all sound below 40 decibels. "What was that?"

"The femur, Captain."

Jim waited a second but the Vulcan didn't continue."What about it?"

"It is still fractured."

Jim rolled his aching eyes. "Why didn't you say so earlier?"

"I-," Spock gave the Vulcan equivalent of a grimace. "You told me to be quiet. I did not wish to interject and run the risk of breaking your concentration, Captain."

Jim blinked twice, then found the necessary words. "I was kidding, Mr. Spock. Your insight is always appreciated," he said, reaching for the med kit as he finished.

"In that case Captain, may I suggest that the arterial repair probe be switched to the 'inert' setting?"

"Mr. Spock?" Jim said as he switched the thing off and set it down.

"Yes, Captain?"

"Shut up."

"Yes, Captain."

Jim grabbed the bone mender, switched it on and begin plugging in the necessary numbers. The sequences were simple and once completed, the actual mending would take only a couple hand fulls of seconds. After that, maybe a week and the ensign would be good to go. Not for a marathon or anything crazy but, not bad for a hand held unit.

About the same time Jim had convinced himself that Spock definitely understood the humorous nature of his barb, he noticed a tremor run through the ensign's leg. A quick glance revealed that, the ensign had _not_ begun to stir but in fact; Mr. Spock was struggling against his own, now trembling arms to keep the stranglehold pressure constant around the thigh. Jim's own body was beginning to protest the fact that he was reaching over a left leg in order to access the right. He thought a switch might do them both some good.

"Mr. Spock, what say we switch sides on the count of three?"  
Spock's brow wrinkled as he glanced up.

"I am afraid I cannot, Captain."

"O.K. then," Jim said, a tad irritated. "Count of five work for you?"

"The count is inconsequential. The action itself would be impossible, as I am pinned by the very same navigational unit which delivered Ensign Rogue to this critical state."

It was then Jim noticed, in the half dead lighting, that the large block of hardware sitting behind his first officer was in fact resting on top one of the Vulcan's legs, half way up to the knee.

"I am fortunate though, that the unit came to rest in a much more favorable fashion on me than it did Ensign Rogue. Also, I am fortunate for my Vulcan heritage, as it ensures I will walk away with no significant injuries. The difficulty exists solely in removing myself from underneath the console." At Jim's lack of a response he beseeched, "Captain, you cannot free me. Please continue the surgery."

Jim nodded. "So that's the _real_ reason you didn't get the kit yourself? I thought Vulcan's didn't lie," he said, setting to work on the femur.

"An exclusion of fact, when and where that fact would serve no benefit, is - even to a Vulcan - an acceptable method of simplifying and expediting sensitive situations. "Knowing that I am pinned would not have impacted your performance in any positive manner. Therefore, it went unmentioned."

"Whatever you say, Spock," He replied, dropping the 'Mr.' out of sheer annoyance. It'd serve the Vulcan right and besides; it didn't take as long to say.  
"Switching to dermal regenerater," he said, just to keep up the pretense that this was an actual surgery and not a couple of complete hacks groping around in the dark.

"The proper setting in this instance-"

"I know, Spock. It's just…hard to make out the display in this lighting," he said, squinting all the while and bringing the squat probe's numerical output closer and closer to his face. Praying it came into focus before he put out an eye.  
"There we go!" He set the thing to the perfect frequency with absolutely no help from the lying, piss poor excuse of a first officer known as Spock but, before Jim could get back to his off-protocol doctoring, fate made it's stance on the matter abundantly clear.

A terrible screeching wracked the air. A half second later, barely enough time for captain and first officer to meet each other's eyes, the entire transport pitched forward and in the middle of the sudden, violent movement, Jim felt something hit him. Hard enough that he was knocked off his knees and out of consciousness.  
As the transport plummeted, even though he felt the weightlessness associated with a long fall and a big splat, he was aware of little aside from his sudden 'mother of all headaches' and the one faint, echoed shout of, "_**Jim!**_"

**Hiya! This story is a birthday present for my wonderful sister who, like me, is all about Star Trek. TOS, New Trek, mugs with the bridge crew's faces plastered across in gaudy colors, you name it! Though we haven't come across any such mugs yet... **  
** My sis asked me to write a fic starring James T. Kirk and Spock. I was more than happy to oblige. Regardless of the fact that I haven't written a shred of fanfiction in years. **

**Anyway, I had too much fun writing this first chapter and will definitely be continuing the story. I can't guarantee speedy updates, considering the holiday season is littered with birthdays and... holidays, but I will be taking a valiant stab at not succumbing to writers block. Yay!**

**Please do review if you would like to let us know what you think of this first installment and please also, have a great holiday season. Or, go for broke and have a great whole year! Whatever suits you fancy.**

**P.S. **  
**Thanks a bunch for reading!**


	2. Scrambled

**Hey guys, Anonymous here! I'd like to send a batch of cyber cookies to everyone who reviewed, followed, favorited or just plain read the first chapter. ( The good kind of cyber cookies.) It makes my day to know that people enjoyed!**  
**This is part two of my sis's birthday present and I'd like everyone to take this moment to help me sing her the birthday song. Pretty please.**  
** : )  
As soon as you've finished with the cake and ice cream reward, you may assist the birthday girl in enjoying my gift to her.  
**

**Without further ado; Enjoy!**

The first thing he was really aware of, aside from the headache, was the soft, fresh breeze playing across his face and it's lack of the offensive smell of burned electronics. Then the sandy earth beneath and the hard packed mound he was propped against. Not quite sitting, not quite lying and **definitely** no longer trapped in the transport.  
There was also that annoying, droning voice getting louder and- hey wait a sec. Was that Spock? He regained his sense of hear at that point.

"-is unconscious, as has been his stable condition over the past 8.6 minutes. I have taken us far enough from the transport ship as to be deemed safe in the case of a complete engine core meltdown and subsequent explosion.  
"The engines and primary thrusters are still attempting to follow through with the standard self repair protocol. Unfortunately, judging by the nature of our landing and the shrill wailing the engines have only recently come to produce, I believe the entire transport to be a hopeless case.  
"We are therefore forced to locate shelter and supplies as can be afforded on this relatively undocumented planet and from whatever base we manage to establish, we will endeavor to track down the original group of Starfleet research personnel. As was our initial mission and indeed; the cause that brought us to this predicament." There was a pause in his clipped barrage of dictation. Jim knew that if Spock were human he would be sighing or chewing his lip, but knowing Spock as he did, there was no doubt in his foggy mind that the Vulcan would do nothing more human than stare off into the distance.  
"The ensigns Rogue and Jordan were both lost in the crash."

That…that just wasn't right; it couldn't be! Not after all they'd done- how close to the clear they'd gotten! Someone so cruelly close to saved to end up…not?  
Life could be a real bitch.

Swallowing a bleak sense of hopelesness, Jim let his first officer continue his log entry. It promised to be informative, if not only depressing.

"When and if this recording is submitted to Starfleet records department it must be noted that Ensign Rogue and Ensign Jordan both died in the line of duty, with no reservations. They were excellent additions to the fleet and their families deserve what little comfort these words may bring them."

If Jim was hearing that right; Spock was getting dangerously close to sentimental. He supposed working in the same lab, as Spock had with the ensign Rogue, was a good way to get to know someone. Maybe the Vulcan had even grown to like the kid. Whatever the case, that little tint of emotion was absent in the next portion of his entry.

"I now know that the transport, as a result of the total engine failure caused - presumably - by the sudden onset of an ionic storm and other, unknown forces, had initially crashed on the sloping rim of a mesa, some twenty meters above the valley floor. The second plummet was simply a matter of gravity getting the better of a temporary and precipitous perch.  
"We are fortunate that the ground was not comprised chiefly of bedrock and doubly so that the forces of gravity on this planet are only ninety-four percent of those of earth." Again he paused for a second or so. "The percentage may be inaccurate…considering I gathered the necessary variables during a fall in which the particulars of science were not all that held my concern."  
Typical Spock. Falling to his imminent doom and he just _has_ to take the time to run equations. The guy was a class A workaholic.

"I was able to salvage scarce little from the wreckage, this geological tricorder being chief among the supplies as well as forty percent of the unsecured medical kit which had been in use at the time of the second plummet.  
"The dermal regenerater, which Captain Kirk had been making use of at the time of the second plummet, was irreparably damaged by way of a collision with the Captain's skull. The other medical probes were either broken as well or lost." So_ that_ was the reason for the headache!  
"It is my sincere hope that when the crewmen who we were sent to retrieve are found, they are in good health, as these medical supplies will not be sufficient for treatment of any median sized group's worth of injuries."

He paused. Again. Spock was pausing a lot.

"The Captain or I shall record all relevant proceedings in hopes that, in the event that we do not survive, someone will gain from our experiences here. End of entry."  
Jim was pretty sure Spock was shuffling his feet, but it was always possible he was taking a dirt sample or enacting some sort of Vulcan communion with the planet or something totally **not** human.  
Nah. He was shuffling his feet.  
Time to say something before the poor bastard started chewing his nails.

"You know, I'd almost forgotten why we came here in the first place."

"Captain!"

Jim heard the first officer drop to one knee, suddenly by his side, so he opened an eye to get a look at him.  
Not bad for someone who'd just fallen from the sky in a screaming metal death trap. Aside from a couple tears in his uniform and a spot of green on a nasty split in his bottom lip, he looked golden. Except that his face was still largely black.

"Yeah, I'm awake."

"Captain…" Spock said, with a barely discernible hint of relief. "You are aware of our current situation?"

"Yeah, I heard," Jim said, with a chuckle chasing the words. He was suddenly much too aware of just how thoroughly beaten he was. He was even able to pinpoint which part of his head had supposedly destroyed the dermal regenerater. It just so happened to be his face.  
Though he knew it was the worst idea he'd had all day, aside from getting out of bed that morning, he gave another chuckle.  
"Ironic...isn't it, Mr. Spock?"

"Captain?"

Before Jim replied, a little grin broke through the blood drying over his mouth, dripping down from one cheekbone. "Ironic that the thing that's… " he sucked in a breath, "supposed to help us preserve our good looks… tried to massacre my face." He was pretty sure Spock was doing the eyebrow thing but it was nigh on impossible to tell through the thick layer of black mercury and navigation's station oil covering the majority of the Vulcan's features.  
Yeah, the lighting was good enough out here that he'd solved the 'mystery of the black faced Vulcan' himself. Good thing too, because it had been driving him crazy.

"Captain, the term 'massacre' is a stronger one than I feel should be applied to the situation. I believe I am familiar with one which would fit." His head tilted as he searched his vast memory stores. "In use on Earth, late 20th through mid 21st centuries. An example:  
It is ironic that the dermal regenerater - considering the unit's function is to ensure the health of all types of skin and tissues - 'jacked up' your face."

Jim had no words for that. No words at all. In fact, no breath to spare on words either. Now that he thought about it; breathing wasn't meant to take that much effort.  
The way Spock's expression changed from 'amused' to 'deeply concerned' in the space of one more breath confirmed his suspicion that something needed some attention put to it.  
Spock reached out and unzipped Jim's dark grey - gold trimmed - tactical suit jacket, a Vulcan frown breaking out as he did.

Hmm, maybe the trouble had to do with that pink froth bubbling up out of his command shirt, right about where his heart was busy beating itself into a frenzy.  
Oh, never mind. His heart was on the other side.

Spock wasn't saying anything, so Jim voiced his concern."I think there's something wrong with… with that lung."

Spock took another second or so, observing, before he nodded. "Captain, you have a sucking chest wound and if I am not mistaken, human physiology requires something be done immediately to prevent…death." Spock's face went a shade grimmer. Jim hoped that was all _his_ did. Though, knowing that Vulcan's were masters of down playing their feelings, he expected his own face better expressed the downright bone chilling effect Spock's analysis had on him.  
After all, no matter how many people might try to give you evidence to indicate the opposite: James T. Kirk did **not** have a death wish. In fact, he had a "live long and prosper" wish.  
"I must apologize, Captain. In my haste to clear the potential blast zone I failed to do a thorough medical evaluation. Once we were clear I-

"Spock," Jim said, to quiet the Vulcan. "It must not have been noticeable if _you_, of all people, didn't… notice."

"Captain-"

Again Jim cut him off. "_So_, Mr. Spock, our transport's… down for the count. Most of the weapons, the med supplies, are... missing or broken. Our provisions are-"

"Captain, I am well aware the details of our plight. I am also aware that the more you dwell on those details the higher your heart rate will climb and, subsequently; the more air you will force through your lungs, increasing the dangers of a collapse and enlarging any existing pneumothorax."

"So, you're saying… I punctured a lung?"

"…It is a possibility, Captain."

The whole exchange took place amid the flurry of motion which had become Spock. Taking off the captain's jacket and shirt - not at all easy tasks at the moment but necessary considering they had no idea how long the undeveloped planet would be their home and therefore, how long until they'd get their hands on another change of clothes - and placing an adhesive strip across the hastily cleaned puncture wound.

"Even that unfortunate possibility might not pose such a problem if you possessed a level of control over your bodily systems that would allow one lung to stay completely still while the other continued to function. Unfortunately, I am aware of only three individuals who have ever demonstrated such ability. All three were Vulcan high priests and one of the three was never able to reinstate the use of his damaged lung. Quoted saying, 'The body is a fickle thing. Once a physiological pathway has been blocked long enough there is no guarantee it will allow itself to be reopened. Repairing a body is not so simple a thing as repairing a temple.' He refers, at the last, to the old Terran adage, 'Your body is your temple.' "He lived, with the use of only one lung, to be 141 years of age. His death was reportedly the tragic outcome of an exploration into fine manipulation of different heart functions, utilizing nothing but ones' long cultivated and intimate understanding of their body's rhythms and functional nuances and of course; a finely disciplined, logical mind."

"Spock, why are you telling me… **any**…of this stuff?" A valid question. Especially considering Jim was pretty sure his heart rate had climbed through the entire telling of that poor, misguided monk's doubly misguided extra-curricular pursuits.  
Spock blinked. Then explained.

"Frankly Captain, I was 'shooting the breeze' so as to not worry you as I prepared my mind for what is to come."

"What?!" Jim's voice may have cracked a little but if it did, it wasn't because he was worried Spock was planning to mercy kill him as a logical way to increase his own chances at survival. No, that had nothing to do with it.

Spock didn't seem to notice and went on, as calm as ever. "Vulcan's steady their minds with a moment of silent concentration but I understand that to most humans, seeing such a thing is…unsettling. Therefore, working in close quarters with a ship full of human colleagues, I have grown accustomed to doing such maintenance while also otherwise engaged or else; while off duty." His face, though still a strange shade of black, seemed to convey a note of accomplishment.

"Way to go Spock. I am…curious though, as to… what it was you were… preparing for."

Then he reverted to serious Vulcan mode and delivered the heavy news Jim had been waiting for. "Captain, it is now my turn to perform a surgery for which I am not qualified."  
Jim swallowed, hard as he could and- was that blood he tasted?

"With, uh, with what… Spock? You said all our relevant medical supplies were… kaput!" Jim could feel the apprehension setting it's roots deep. Somewhere in his chest, near that puncture wound that neither he nor Spock had noticed until it was too- no. He wouldn't kid anyone; it had been too late the moment it'd happened. Whenever that was. Or else, the moment the medical probes were lost. The difference was not an important one by that point. Spock- what was Spock talking about then?

"Captain, I have studied - albeit, not extensively - human physiology and historical accounts of medicine through your Terran ages. Though we are, at this time, short what is these days considered to be 'the essentials', we have everything we need and more bpy your earlier Earth standards." He reached to the side, bringing a small package into Jim's line of sight. "You will not die here… Jim. I will see to that."  
Yeah, that wasn't helping at all. Keep his heart rate down his foot! If this was Spock's attempt at reassuring; well, suffice it to say that Jim was anything _but_.

"Uh, Spock?"

"Yes, Jim?" The Vulcan was preoccupied then, undoing the package and laying it out.

"Are those *needles*?" The one thing- it _had_ to be needles! Shining innocently up in his face as if they didn't plan on doing him in!

Spock looked up, looked Jim in the eyes and held that gaze for a second or two before speaking. "Jim, my mind is steadied. Now, we must steady yours." That look in Spock's eyes. Obviously Jim was about to receive more information than he wanted to. "The only way that this can be accomplished, to the degree that it must, is through application of a Vulcan technique which, because of it's inception in the ages of extreme antiquity and limited use in recent times, lacks a given name pronounceable by humans."  
Jim didn't really like the sound of that. 'Unpronounceable' generally also meant either 'unsafe', or 'ill-conceived-so-they'd-like-to-save-face-by-keep ing-it-a-secret'. 'Unpronounceable' did not inspire ship-loads of confidence.  
"The joining of two consciousnesses with the result being, a calm mind guiding an unsettled mind." Spock paused to find the right words; then, with a minute bob of his head, continued. "The calm mind 'takes control' of the other, allowing for precise manipulation of the injured body by means of a combination of verbal and nonverbal commands. As a hypnotist might." His head quirked at the quaint idea. "Almost as if controlling one's *own* body, but with the potential for much finer, more exact commands to be implemented."

If this had been anyone besides Spock, Jim would have called them out for a liar. Unfortunately for Jim; Vulcan's can't lie. Or so they say, anyway.

"If our minds were to join in this fashion, yours would 'take a backseat'- if you will - and mine would be the one 'holding the reigns'. You would, essentially, be in a trance and you would not possess the power to refuse any of my suggestions. At least, that is the theory I was made aware of." He gave a tiny Vulcan shrug and went on, as if that wasn't one of the worst things a surgeon could ever hope to say to a patient who's insides they were about to become intimately acquainted with.  
"Without this kind of control, in this uncontrolled environment, to proceed would be tantamount to carrying out an unpleasant death sentence."  
After a moment of thought he made to clarify. "By 'unpleasant', I mean-"

"Yes Spock, I get… the picture," said with a sense of despondency. Then, with a grimace, "Listen, it's getting kinda… hard to breath. Could we maybe, get on with it?"

"Jim," Spock said, as he placed a hand on his captain's shoulder. "You will be the first human in recorded history on which a Vulcan has attempted to apply this technique. Therefore, I cannot guarantee..." He squirmed a bit. Searching for the right words, perhaps?  
"On Vulcan, in years recently passed, this was done only in remote areas where synthesized drugs were a precious or rare commodity. It serves a vital role in calming the patient; allowing the caregiver the stillness and control necessary for any sensitive treatment's successful completion.  
"Trembling, shivering, a racing heart, delirium; all can be suppressed through the application of this technique. But-"

"Have you ever... done this before?" Jim cut him off before the Vulcan could go off on another long, _long_, unnecessary explanation. Spock shook his head, indicating no. "Ever seen it done?" Another shake of the head. "Alright. But you're confidant it will... will work, right? You can keep me sedated long enough to do... whatever it is you have to do?"

Jim didn't receive an immediate answer. The Vulcan was ruminating, which was generally not a good sign.  
Finally, Spock said, "I must reiterate: You would be the first human in recorded-"

"Spock! I got that... Will it work, though?"

"You must understand; this technique was used on Vulcan's who have undergone training since early childhood, cultivating our inherent mental abilities in such an effective manner that we are expected to be completely in control of ourselves, our bodies and our emotions at all times."

Jim kept a stern face while suppressing a chuckle. Never minding the fact that this Vulcan had gone full blown **ape** on more than one - well documented - occasion.

"Pain is among the things which we can control, some individuals to a more advanced levels than others, but regardless... it is not something that humans are capable of controlling. To _any_ level.  
"I - to use human nomenclature -' fear' that, even completely entranced, you would be subject to your bodies pain. Unable to ignore or suppress your nerve's distressed signals and, from beginning to end, fully aware of the motions of the surgical procedure." To the questioning expression his captain couldn't help but share, Spock concluded his explanation. "This technique and indeed the procedure itself, require I have a conscious patient. I cannot guide an unresponsive body. There is no way around that provision."

Jim's brow shot toward his hairline, his pupils shrinking in the suddenly very bright sunlight. This was sounding more and more like a form of torture than a saving grace! I order to see the next sunrise, he was forced to undergo a tedious, potentially lengthy surgery performed by a novice, using techniques he'd only **read** about with nothing but **Stone Age** medical supplies at his disposal! While _**conscious**_.  
He really should have stayed in bed that morning.

"Well," Jim said. Wetting his lip in a nervous twitch. "what are we waiting for?"

Spock's face was unreadable as he said, "Only your consent, Captain. You also must know that, once we start, there is no chance for reprieve. No possibility for rest. This must be undertaken with the utmost of conviction and neither of us can afford a break in concentration. We must, both of us, know only the steel of resolve. Until this surgery is complete, I can give no thought to your comfort. To do so would only increase our chances of failure." He paused and Jim's breath hitched.  
"I will do what must be done, no matter the pain it will undoubtedly inflict, and without the slightest hesitance."  
Spock paused, searching his captain's stricken face, getting a peak through that superficial layer of fear and catching a glimpse of the courage he'd known was lying beneath; waiting to take fear's place and pull them through. As it did every time.

He then asked the million dollar question with as much compassion as his Vulcan ancestry would allow. "Do you consent?"

"Do I have a choice?" The Vulcan's eyebrow did the thing, visible even through the muck he'd yet to clean off his face. Jim headed him off with a hasty, "Yes Spock! I consent! God, just… do it already."

"Very well, Captain." Jim saw the hand reaching for his face and did not draw away, though he'd seen that same hand before. Back in a cave on a carniverous, frozen planet. That same hand, only wizened with age, in that same shape, had imparted to him unspeakable volumes of knowledge and a sea of writhing emotions all in the space of a few moments. His mind cringed at the thought of that happening a second time, though he was aware that was not Spock's intention.  
He tried his darndest to relax.

The fingers touched and like a battery reaching it's dock, a curcuit was completed.  
A spark of life definitely not belonging to Jim entered him through those contact points and he realized that Spock had been right to take the time explaining the process. If he hadn't, Jim would have completely freaked out at the sensation of seeing the world through a pair of binoculars instead of his own flesh and blood eyes. Even his hands didn't feel like they were connected to him anymore. Instead, there was some sort of stranger settling in where he usually was, pushing him from his comfy captain's chair and into a corner, as if he was a misbehaving child.  
He could feel Spock make him flex his fingers and almost balked at the tightness of his chest when he was asked to take a deep breath. He could hear Spock telling his body to calm down and, even though Jim knew he'd otherwise be on the verge of hyperventilating, he felt his body comply. Almost sagging into itself in it's eagerness to please the new master.

Damn. Where could _he_ get some of that Vulcan training? If all it took was growing crazy eyebrows and demonic, pointy ears…he'd think about it. If he had to walk the Spock-talk though; that was a deal breaker.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He sat straight, pulling his fingers from his entranced patient's face. There was no room for such a human emotion as doubt. Confidence, on the other hand, was permissible.  
His eyes fell to the salvaged medical supplies and he knew there was nothing for it. These were the only needles, the only _supplies_ at his disposal and likely the only ones available on the entirety of the planet's surface. Sanitary or not, they were Captain Kirk's one chance at living to see another day. That was irrefutable fact.

What had Spock's fingers trembling a tremble only his sharp eyes could perceive, as he threaded one needle of appropriate size and curve, was the knowledge that without any form of anti-biotic, using an unexplored world rife with it's own unique cornucopia of germs as an operating room, the Captain's likelihood of developing an infection was above 55%. That number, compounded by nearly endless other variables brought the chances for his survival to…a deplorably low level.

But, to clarify, Spock's unease had nothing to do with his extreme proximity to his captain's helter-skelter, emotional mind. Nor was it a result of any feelings of friendship he harbored for the man.  
Nope. He simply…did not savor the prospect of having to spend an undetermined amount of time on that strange planet alone, with the knowledge that he had failed his captain hanging over his head.  
In that scenario, by extension, he would have failed the entire crew of the Enterprise as well. Lieutenant Uhura happened to be included in that selfsame crew.  
Failure was not a favorable option. So, he would not fail.

Prepped needle in an ungloved, unsterilized hand, he took one more moment to collect his Vulcan resolve and got busy familiarizing himself with the intricacies of a living and breathing, human thorax. The insides of it, that is.

**Yo! You've reached the bottom of the page! Hurray!  
If the force compels you, please feel free to comment! Did you like this chapter or the first one in particular? If so, why? Whatever you'd like to say I'd like to hear it. Just, please, be gentle. I get space sick easily.**

**Thanks once again for reading and please don't hold your breath on a third chapter. Your face might go blue.  
I know it's mean of me but I already had these two pretty much ready when I put the first up. I expect the holidays and work are going to tie me up but good for the next few weeks and I would be very surprised if I managed to make much headway before the 1st of January 2014.**

**I do have a oneshot in the works though so, if you're interested in that feel liberated to let me know! With the power of the Jedi on my side I might finish it up reeeeal soon!**

**P.S.**

**I apologize for my blasphemous use of Star Wars references. I couldn't resist. At least they were only in the author's note!**

**'Till next time, Anonymous : D**


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